


Abiit Ad Maiores

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestor-Era, Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Slavery, everything kind of sucks now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lives of the followers continue after the death of their leader.</p><p>"If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”</p><p>(Not quite.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abiit Ad Maiores

–––– _all the rowboats_ ––––

 

She circles him again and again, tangling herself with the ship so that he cannot separate his bonds from her tresses.

“If only you’d behave,” she sighs, a hot burst of air against his cheek. “There are windows in my rooms. The nebulas are beautiful, but they make one feel so extraordinarily small. So very alone.”

A fingernail trails down his neck. “I would let you, if you’ll let me.”

The engineroom is bare and dark, and he could close his eyes and know every curl of every wire, every knot in her hair.

He tries to forget the stars.

 

–––– _use my wings when storms come around_ ––––

 

She can feel the cool air creeping through the cracks in the floor, smelling of damp wood and raw salt and the dried sweat on her shoulders. The Marquise refastens her boot buckles carefully, humming fragments of a bar song.

She stares at her hands, at the chipped ends of her nails and the pale skin between her fingers. Mindfang’s hands were rough and calloused, old sailor’s hands belonging to a young, reckless girl with skin aged by sweeps at sea.

“I like you,” the Marquise says, petting her head like a child’s.

She feels unbearably ancient, an empty shell.

 

–––– _couldn't bring the columns down_ ––––

 

She finds her way through the labyrinths by touch, knowing the corners and turns and crannies by the rock under her feet and hands. Blood dries quickly, and she is careful not to write over her previous entries by accident.

She writes with his voice in her ear, a memory of a whisper that guides her fingers in painting the Scripture on the cavern ceilings. Verses and parables and hearts-spades-clubs-diamonds weave together in whirlwinds of red.

She calls to him, but only the echoes answer.

The color has already begun to fade.


End file.
